Azure’s request,” Nim says. “We should be grateful that he convinced King Ingram to meet with you at all.”
Pen looks from Thomas to me, fury in her eyes. “That royal terror is trying to ruin everything.”
“He must have a plan,” I say, trying to calm her. “Let Basil and me go. We’ll see what it’s all about, and I’ll tell you everything once I return.”
Her teeth are gritted, but she knows no good would come from arguing and she gives in.
Nimble is our driver, and as usual, Jack Piper is nowhere. “I visited with Birds yesterday,” Nim says, trying to sound cheerful to lighten the mood. He glances at us in the rearview mirror. “Father finally got around to visiting her, and wouldn’t you know, they spent the whole time arguing.”
“Why?” Basil asks.
“She’s got scars,” Nim says. “In particular, this deep continuous gash that runs down the side of her face and her arm. Father says it ruins her. He says no man will ever marry her and that he’d like to send her overseas to this surgeon in the north who can fix it. Only, she doesn’t want it fixed. She wants to keep it. She says it’s a part of her now.”
“She should keep it, then,” I say.
“Father hates the reminder. I dare even to say that he feels guilty for what’s happened to her. Maybe he has a conscience in there after all.”
Like burials, this is another custom I don’t understand. We wear our scars where I come from.
I meet his eyes in the mirror for an instant before he looks back to the road. “If that’s what it’s about, don’t let him send her off to that surgeon,” I say. “If her scars remind him of what he did, he should have to look at them every day. Maybe it will change his mind the next time he goes along with the king’s warfare.”
“It’s a nice thought, but nothing can change his mind once he’s made it up. Especially not when he’s working for the king.” He glances at me in the mirror again. “What’s your king like?”
“Celeste didn’t talk about him?”
“She did,” Nim says. “But with a sort of hopefulness. I got the sense that she was idealizing things when she said he could be reasoned with.”
The king’s castle has begun to emerge from the distance, and I’m getting a queasy feeling in my stomach.
“Whatever you do,” Nim says, “don’t let on to the king that you know anything about the phosane. He doesn’t think much of broads anyway, so all you have to do is act dense. You don’t know anything. You just want to help.”
That shouldn’t be hard. King Ingram makes me so uneasy that it’s hard to speak around him anyway. Maybe it’s a good thing Pen isn’t here; she isn’t intimidated by anyone.
It’s a perfectly sunny day, but when we reach the castle, it doesn’t glimmer as much as it has in the past. A shadow seems to loom over it.
Nimble brings the car to a stop. He turns in his seat and looks between Basil and me. “Say as little as you can,” he says. “Be dumb. If the king realizes you know more than he does about the city sinking, you’ll never get what you want. You’ll be trapped here working for him.”
Two of the king’s guards have been waiting for us, and they open the car doors so we can step out.
“King Ingram and his guest are expecting the three of you,” a guard says. “Right this way.”
I have come to hate this castle. The waste of it. How many bricks were laid, and how much money went into this sprawling palace filled with empty rooms? On Internment, children dream about whether castles exist. I used to dream as well. But in my grandest dreams, the castle was not half the size of this one, and every room was filled with parties and food and dancing girls in sweeping dresses, not a gleaming stone gone to waste.
I’m grateful that Basil is here beside me. When I begin to feel that I’ll drown in this world and its strange luxuries, he makes me remember who I am, where we come from.
“You’re here, you’re here!” King Ingram is clapping as he greets us in the hallway. He walks straight to me and takes my hand in both of his and kisses my knuckles with enthusiasm. “Now I’ve seen your brilliant little kingdom for myself. It’s magnificent!”
“Thank you,” I manage, startled by his energy.
“And your friend the princess was kind enough to give me the grand tour. Your people were so happy for her return that there were parties daily. Parades. A marvelous festival.”
The only celebration we have on Internment is the Festival of Stars in December, and it both worries and intrigues me to think of the celebration he’s describing. King Furlow must have been frightened if he was willing to expend the city’s resources to throw such an affair.
But when I realize that King Ingram is waiting for me to speak, what I say is, “And how is Princess Celeste?”
Nimble stands beside me now, and I see his face come alive at the mention of her name, but he quickly hides within himself before the king might notice.
“The poor thing has taken ill. The festivities were a bit much for her. But she is back at home in her charming clock tower castle getting the rest she needs. The journey back to Havalais would have been too much for her, but she sends her love. And I’ve brought a surprise for all of you, sent from your King Furlow himself.”
King Ingram leads us to his parlor, saying “Come, come!” as he goes, like a child excited to receive a gift rather than a king about to give one.
He throws open the heavy wooden doors, and Prince Azure rises up from the wing chair. He is dressed in the fashions of this world: a plaid sport jacket with a silk handkerchief in his pocket, and gray pants with sharp creases. But even in the foreign fashion, something about his posture makes me think of home.
“May I present to you Prince Azure of Internment,” King Ingram says.
Basil and I feign surprise. He nods into a bow, I into a curtsy.
“Your Highness,” Nim says. “Welcome to Havalais.”
“Such formality!” King Ingram says. “It’s nice to see young people with a regard for custom. Refreshing. But please sit. Sit!”
I sit on the same couch cushion as I did the very first time I met the king, Basil at one side and Nimble at the other.
It has been mere hours since I saw Prince Azure, but he looks the worse for wear. Or perhaps it’s only that the lantern light concealed his true condition. He is pale, with light purple bags under his eyes that have been dabbed over with cosmetics. He seems smaller in the daylight, regal but still frail. His hair has grown a bit longer, and a lock of it is doing little to conceal a series of pink scars at his right temple.
He meets my eyes but offers neither a smile nor a frown. A politician’s neutral gaze, so much like his father. “I’ve heard quite a bit about this world, and I’m glad for the opportunity to see it myself,” he says.
“Yes, yes, we have quite the itinerary planned,”
